No mercy.
My body surged toward his touch.
He didn’t move at first. He just held me, palm pressed to my soaked heat, letting me pulse against him while he stayed perfectly still.
“Still,” he said.
I froze.
My breath came in quick, shallow pulls.
He lowered his mouth to my ear, voice like gravel. “You don’t grind. You don’t take. You wait.”
My whole body trembled.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“That’s better,” he said, and then—finally—his fingers moved.
Not inside yet.
Across.
A slow, deliberate stroke that found my clit and circled once, like he was testing sensitivity.
I gasped, head tipping back.
He caught my chin with his other hand and held me in place. “Look at me.”
I forced my eyes open.
His gaze was locked on my face like he wanted to watch every crack.
Every surrender.
He stroked again—harder.
My knees bent.
“Don’t fall,” he said calmly, as if I were a thing he expected to break. “Stand.”
I clung to his shoulders, nails biting into flannel, and he let me.
He didn’t tell me not to touch him.
He wanted me desperate.
His fingers slid lower and then pushed inside me in one smooth motion.
I cried out—quiet, involuntary—and my body clenched around him like it had been starving.
He didn’t give me time to adjust.
He pumped his fingers slowly, deep, each thrust deliberate, stretching me until my thighs shook.
“You’re tight,” he muttered. “So damn tight.”
My face burned. “Please?—”
